


Holly

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Holidays, M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fëanor is capable of both wondrous and terrible sweaters.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for auniverseforgotten’s “something fluffy and sweet with Maedhros/Fingolfin” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/). Special thanks to imera for the muse help~
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

When he used to walk down this street, several hundred years old but still full of youthful worry, he’d look over his shoulder after every second step, half-expecting to find one brother or another hidden in the bushes. Now he’s far outgrown that fear, and he figures, even if this forbidden movement is reported home, that he’s old enough to tell his father it’s stupid. He shouldn’t have to sneak over to his own uncle’s house during the holidays. But he shouldn’t still live with that father either, shouldn’t jealously guard one “ _inner_ ” family secret after another, and shouldn’t _want_ to knock on this door at all.

He does anyway, right in the center of the wreath, and wonders which relative’s smiling face will greet him. 

The door opens a moment later, and it’s Fingolfin, looking straight into Maedhros’ eyes with the usual spark of warmth. The chilly air clawing at Maedhros’ face and the snow clinging to his boots seem to melt away. He grins back and says, “You’re wearing father’s sweater.”

Fingolfin glances absently down at his own chest, securely wrapped in quite possibly the ugliest clothing ever conceived. It’s mostly red—Fëanor’s favourite colour—but littered with wooly green reindeer and half-eaten cookies, all deliberately misshapen. It doesn’t quite fit, but instead stretches too tightly across Fingolfin’s broad shoulders and taut midsection, yet strangely baggy down his arms. It has the opposite effect of what Fëanor likely intended: Maedhros always enjoys a clear outline of his uncle’s rugged chest.

Fingolfin sighs, “I’m nothing if not a good brother.” Then he lifts his chin to survey Maedhros’ own outfit. He forwent a proper winter jacket on purpose, a little to show off his father’s handiwork and mostly so he’d show up shivering and force Fingolfin to warm him up. The sweater Fëanor knit for his beloved first born may as well have come straight off the runway. Its burgundy base is intertwined with delicate silver stitching around the neck hole and wrists, the middle crisscrossed with an intricate design of many different shades of red and silver. It feels as soft as it looks expensive, and it fits him like a glove, even a little long down his waist, because he’s always play-whining to his father that his excessive height robs him of the comfort of extra length. He can tell it was made with love, and Fingolfin must agree, because he says, “Yours, on the other hand, is as beautiful as its bearer.”

Maedhros grins broadly and quips, “If it’s any consolation, despite my father’s best efforts to the contrary, you’re still as handsome as ever.”

Fingolfin returns an indulgent smile and leans forward to peck Maedhros’ cheek, then steps dutifully aside to allow him in. Maedhros walks onto the front matt and kicks the powder off his boots, asking in the process, “Is anyone else over?” They’re all grown and off now—Fingolfin doesn’t hoard his children like Fëanor does. But they still adore him and visit often, and Fingon’s pleasant company is always a good excuse to be here: their friendship is public knowledge.

But Fingolfin to himself is better, and Maedhros is secretly glad when Fingolfin shakes his head. “No, although you just missed Aredhel trying to drag me out to another boxing day sale. I assured her I already got most of what I wanted for the holidays.”

Maedhros opens his mouth to ask what things were missing, but then he quiets, because he knows. They want the same thing: the _entire_ family together for the holidays. But that isn’t likely for at least another few hundred years, so in the meantime, Maedhros climbs out of his boots and away from the glass borders around the door. The living room is safer—a large, decorated tree blocks off the bay windows, and the carpet is a pleasant relief for Maedhros’ damp socks. Fingolfin follows him, though Maedhros stops just in the doorway, stepping right into the groove between Fingolfin’s feet and cooing, “I loved your present, you know. Thank you.”

“And I yours,” Fingolfin answers. He demonstrates by hooking his index finger into the off-center v-neck of his sweater and tugging it down, revealing the gold pendant resting against his chest. Maedhros forged the locket himself, and it looks just as good as he’d hoped against Fingolfin’s skin.

It would be better if it were _all_ bear skin, and Maedhros tilts to purr in Fingolfin’s ear, “That wasn’t the only gift.” It’s an obvious ploy, but always a fun one. When he arches his body into Fingolfin’s, he catches the quick hitch of breath, and then a sturdy arm’s around his waist, and his chin is being tilted back to share an open kiss. 

There was a time when Fingolfin, in all his strength and wisdom, was hesitant for this. But now they’re a hundred years or so past caring, and when Maedhros surges forward, Fingolfin meets him with equal fire. They share a long, languid kiss, before Maedhros manages to tear his hands away enough to work open his fly.

Fingolfin pulls back at the sound of Maedhros’ jeans slinking to the floor. He steps out of the denim after, forcing Fingolfin back a step, and he reaches to cup Fingolfin through his trousers, thumb tracing one pesky button. “We’ll have to be careful with mine,” Maedhros murmurs against Fingolfin’s lips, “But that sweater of yours looks _made_ to be sullied.”

“And you would have us do so in only your father’s gifts?” Fingolfin asks, quirking one brow. There’s a hint of a smile to his mouth, though a bit of scolding to his tone. Maedhros never claimed to be perfect. When Fingolfin reaches up to thread his fingers through Maedhros’ thick hair, he knows his lure is working. 

He breathes, “Give me another present,” and Fingolfin, his most doting uncle, grants him what he wishes.


End file.
